“Sorry to hear about the wife,” Mr. Bosu said. “Otherwise, I would've done her next.”
He pulled the knife over and up. It didn't take much after all. The old man collapsed, a shriveled husk on the kitchen floor. Mr. Bosu remembered to step back more quickly this time. He didn't want to ruin a second pair of shoes.
He washed up in the kitchen sink, grimacing at the sight of blood still staining his shirtsleeve and now fresh splatters on his pants. No doubt about it, he was a mess. He rinsed the knife before returning it to the sheath wrapped around his calf. Then he went to search the house.
He found the boy upstairs, in a room decorated with faded pink and purple flowers. As he pushed open the door, the boy said in a hopeful sort of voice, “Mommy?”
Mr. Bosu smiled. First time he'd seen the boy was in the hospital the night he went after the doctor. That night, the boy had called him Daddy. It was nice to know Mr. Bosu could be so loved.
He pushed all the way into the room and the boy sat up on the bed. For a moment, they regarded each other soberly. The boy was small, pale, and sickly. Mr. Bosu was huge, heavily muscled, and stained with blood.
“So,” Mr. Bosu said at last, “would you like to see a puppy?”
The boy held out his hand.
As they were leaving the house, the phone rang. Mr. Bosu didn't have to be a psychic to know who it would be. He picked up the phone.
“Dad,” Catherine said.
“Catherine,” Mr. Bosu said.
“Oh my God.”
“Hey, Cat. Your son says hi.”
Chapter
37
“W
E
'
RE GOING TO
need a gun,” Bobby said.
Catherine didn't reply. She was in a state of shock, her gaze unfocused as she followed him blankly down the stairs. He'd made a conscious decision to bypass the elevators. The hospital had security officers. Would they already be on the lookout for him, maybe lying in wait in the lobby?
He remembered what he'd told Dr. Lane only hours before: Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.
“They took Jimmy's guns,” Catherine said abruptly, panting a little as Bobby rushed them downstairs. “He kept them in the safe. An officer took them all away.”
Except for the one she'd hidden in the bureau, Bobby thought, but now was not the time.
“I have three handguns and a rifle at home, but I'm pretty sure they already have officers positioned at my front door.” He frowned, hammered down another long flight, and found a solution. “My father. Pop. Maybe they haven't reached him yet.”
There was no cell signal in the stairwell. Bobby had to wait until they reached the lobby. He spotted two security officers positioned by the main doors. They didn't seem to be watching for anyone in particular, but Bobby didn't feel like taking a chance. He grabbed Catherine's hand and pulled her down the side hallway. They emerged out a smaller entrance into a busy side street. Perfect.
“Grab a cab,” he ordered.
“I have a car—”
“And the police know your plates.”
She went to work on the cab. He flipped open his cell phone and pressed the speed-dial button for his father. Pop picked up on the second ring.
“Pop, I need a favor.”
“Bobby? Two guys came here earlier. Looking, asking, making a lot of nasty suggestions.”
“I'm sorry, Pop. I can't talk, and I can't explain. I need a gun, though, and I don't have time to drive out to your place.”
“What do you want?” his father asked.
“Handgun. Nothing fancy, but plenty of ammo. Are they watching you?”
“You mean the two guys in suits across the street?”
“Shit.”
“They told me you're in over your head.”
“I'm still swimming.”
“I saw on the news. . . . They're flashing your photo, Bobby, saying you're wanted for questioning regarding the murder of a local ADA.”
“I didn't do it.”
“Never thought you did.”
“Do you trust me, Pop?”
“Never had a moment's doubt.”
“I love you, Dad.” And that comment, probably more than any other, scared them both.
“Where?” his father asked quietly.
Bobby thought of Castle Island.
Thirty minutes later, his father met them there.
M
R. BOSU WAS
also on the phone. Winding his car through the maze of back streets in downtown Boston, he was semi-lost, but not quite worried about that yet. The boy sat quietly in the front seat. He was a good boy, passive, obedient. He already reminded Mr. Bosu of his mother.
Trickster was on the boy's lap. Nathan was stroking Trickster's ears. Trickster was nuzzling Nathan's hand. Mr. Bosu smiled at them both indulgently as his call was finally picked up.
“Good afternoon!” he boomed into Robinson's cell phone.
“Who is this?” the man asked.
“Mr. Bosu, of course. And this is Judge Gagnon, I presume.”
The good judge, aka Benefactor X, was obviously flustered. “Who . . . what—”
“Do you prefer me to use the name Richard Umbrio? I would think on an open phone line, you wouldn't, but I don't care. Either way, you owe me money.”
“What are you talking about?” the judge demanded.
Mr. Bosu glanced over at the boy. Nathan was regarding him curiously. Mr. Bosu grinned. He meant it to be friendly. Maybe he'd spent too much time among felons after all, for the boy promptly turned away, focusing intently on the dog. Trickster licked his chin.
“You owe me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Mr. Bosu said matter-of-factly.
“What?”
“For your grandson.” Mr. Bosu had finally found the side street he wanted. He turned onto a row of grand old homes in the middle of Beacon Hill.
“That is not funny—”
“Nathan, my good boy, tell your grandfather hi.”
Mr. Bosu held out the phone. Nathan called out, “Hi.”
“You monster!”
the judge boomed. “Where the hell are you?”
And Mr. Bosu said merrily, “Right at your front door.”
B
OBBY
'
S FATHER WANTED
to join them. Bobby lost ten precious minutes explaining to his father that it was too dangerous, that Pop was a custom pistolsmith and not a trained marksman, etc., etc., etc.
In the end, Bobby got rude, grabbing the gun, loading up Catherine, and climbing impatiently into the front seat of his father's car. Bobby drove away, with the image of his father standing lost and alone captured vividly in the rearview mirror.
Bobby's hands were tight on the wheel.
“Where do we start?” Catherine asked.
“Your father's house.”
“Do you think . . .”
“I'm sure Nathan is all right,” he tried.
She gave him a feeble smile, but the tears were building in the corners of her eyes.
“My father and I have always fought,” she said quietly. Then she turned her head away from him to cry.
F
RANK MILLER
'
S HOUSE
looked quiet from the front. Door was closed. Blinds were drawn. Nothing and no one stirred. Bobby cruised by once, saw no police in the neighborhood, and rounded the block.
He parked on the corner, instructing Catherine to take over the wheel. “You see him,” he said, no need to define
him,
“just hit the gas and get the hell out of here.”
“And if he has Nathan?”
“Then hit the gas and aim for clipping Umbrio's kneecaps. He'll go down, you can grab your son.”
She liked that idea. It infused color into her cheeks and put a spark in her eyes. She took over the driver's seat with a look of pure determination, while Bobby rechecked the gun his father had given him, then headed down the street.
The front door was unlocked. That gave him the first hint. Walking into the living room, the heavy, rusty scent told him the rest. He checked the whole house just to be sure. But it was empty. Umbrio had come and gone, leaving nothing but a corpse in his wake.
Bobby couldn't bear to look too closely at Catherine's father. The gray hair, the bent, sprawled form, already reminded him too much of Pop. He saw the shotgun on the floor and picked it up, recovering a box of shells from the yawning closet. The man had put up a fight. He'd held his ground for his grandson.
He'd tell that to Catherine, see if that gave her any measure of comfort for all the days to come.
Bobby exited with the shotgun, jogging back to the car, unbearably aware of time. Umbrio had now had Nathan for nearly an hour. Sixty whole minutes. There was no telling what a man like that could do with so much time.
But he didn't think Umbrio had killed the boy—at least not yet. If that's all Umbrio wanted, Bobby would've found Nathan's body with his grandfather's. No, when it came to Nathan, Umbrio had something much grander in mind.
And that thought left Bobby chilled to the bone.
He dialed 911 as he approached the car.
“Body found, male deceased, definite homicide,” he reported, and rattled off the address. He flipped his phone shut just as the 911 operator asked him to hold, opening the car door and sliding into the passenger seat.
Catherine looked at the shotgun, then at his face.
Her face was pale; she struggled briefly, then got it together. “Nathan?”
“No sign of him. I'm sure he's still all right.”
“Okay,” she said, but her voice was clearly strained, barely holding it together. She took a shaky breath. “Where?”
“I think it's time we go straight to the source.”
“Walpole?”
“No. Your father-in-law.”
M
R. BOSU WAS
extremely pleased with himself. He parallel-parked the car in front of the Gagnons' prestigious townhouse, address courtesy of Colleen's records, and prepared to hear the judge hastily renegotiate terms.
Instead, over the phone, the judge had started to chuckle.
“Let me get this straight,” the judge was saying, “you want two hundred and fifty thousand dollars or you'll do what?”
Mr. Bosu glanced at the boy next to him. Interestingly enough, he couldn't bring himself to say the words with the boy sitting right there.
“I think we both know what,” Mr. Bosu said primly. He peered out the window, scowling at the townhouse. Place looked dark. Deserted. For the first time, Mr. Bosu began to wonder about things.
“I don't care.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The boy was a problem I was going to have to take care of sooner or later. In a curious sort of way, you've now done me a favor and I thank you.”
“I don't want your gratitude,” Mr. Bosu said with a scowl. “I want your money!”
“I'm calling the police,” Judge Gagnon announced silkily. “I'm telling them you, a convicted sex offender, kidnapped my grandson. Then I'm bringing every FBI agent, state police trooper, and pissant local sheriff down on your ass. I'd start running,
Mr. Bosu.
You don't have much time left.”
The phone clicked off. Mr. Bosu sat there, stunned. What the hell? The man would even sell out his own grandson?
Mr. Bosu got out of the car. He forgot about Nathan sitting in the front seat, he forgot about the bloodstains on his shirt. He reached the front door of the townhouse and banged hard. Nothing. He rang the doorbell. Then, in a fit of temper, he banged and kicked on the solid oak door with all his might.
The house was empty. Abandoned. Deserted. As in, rats were always the first to abandon ship.
Mr. Bosu was breathing hard. His forearm throbbed from the earlier cut. He was also starting to feel nauseous, a junkie coming down hard from a fix.
He took a few seconds and thought long and hard about things.
So the judge was taking care of the judge. To hell with paying Mr. Bosu, and to hell with saving his grandson.
That was it. Mr. Bosu was officially pissed off. He didn't even care about the money anymore. Now, it was the principle of the thing.
Nobody crossed Mr. Bosu.
Nobody.
Mr. Bosu returned to Robinson's car. The boy sat in the passenger seat, tickling Trickster's ears.
“Say, does your grandfather have a second home?” Mr. Bosu asked casually.
The boy shrugged, played with the dog.
“Anyplace he likes to go in particular? You know, his own special place?”
Another shrug.
Mr. Bosu grew impatient. “Nathan,” he said sternly, “I'm supposed to be returning you to your grandfather. Don't you want to see your grandfather?”
“Okay.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
The boy looked up at him. He said promptly, “At the Hotel LeRoux.”
Mr. Bosu smiled. He put the car in gear. “Nathan,” he said seriously, “when the time comes, I'll make sure you never feel a thing.”
Chapter
38
“I
DON
'
T UNDERSTAND,
” Catherine was saying. “You think my father-in-law hired Umbrio?”
“He used a middleman, Colleen Robinson, to make the arrangements. Umbrio got paroled in return for agreeing to perform a few favors.”
“So why am I still alive?”
“Because killing you isn't as important as discrediting you.”
“Come again?” She blinked her eyes.
“The judge hates you. Hates you for Jimmy, hates you for marrying into the family. But mostly, I think, he hates you for Nathan. As long as you continue to press about Nathan's health, you're on the verge of uncovering his and Maryanne's secret.”
“If I died, I wouldn't be a threat anymore.”
“No. But Dr. Rocco would be. And maybe your father would be. There would always be those who'd observe Nathan's poor health and wonder. Unless, of course, they already had a reasonable explanation for why Nathan was sick.”
“I was poisoning him,” she filled in. “I was a bad mom.”
“Exactly.”
“But once he won custody of Nathan . . .” She frowned. “Wouldn't the fact that Nathan didn't magically get better become a problem?”
“I don't think the judge planned on letting that become a problem,” Bobby said quietly.